Chapter 20: The Reckoning
The rain poured relentlessly, a cold, unyielding deluge that soaked Johnson to the bone as he prowled the shadowed streets of the district. His clothes clung to his skin, heavy and sodden, but he paid no mind. The weight of the water was nothing compared to the burden of his purpose. This, he believed, was his final night in this forsaken place—a city he'd come to despise, a world that had chewed him up and spat him out. His revolver, once a trusted companion with its thirteen bullets, now hung useless at his side, its chambers empty. The two explosives and tear gas canisters he'd carried were long gone, expended in the chaos of the court and police station bombings. Johnson was a man stripped of tools, but not of resolve. His ambitions burned brighter than ever, a dark fire that no rain could extinguish.
He moved with purpose, his boots splashing through puddles, his eyes scanning the district he believed he was seeing for the last time. In his mind, there were only two paths forward: he would either die alone, a solitary end to a life of violence, or he would take Alan with him—his son, his tether to a past he could neither reclaim nor release. Johnson was a man of faith, a devout Christian who clung to the belief that his actions, however brutal, would lead him to salvation. Heaven awaited him, he was certain, where he would be reunited with his wife, Michelle, and perhaps even Alan. The thought brought a fleeting warmth to his chest, a flicker of hope amidst the storm.
But as he walked, a memory clawed its way to the surface, sharp and unwelcome. Michelle. Her face, her voice, her anger—they flooded his mind, pulling him back to a time when everything had begun to unravel.
The Past
Johnson's life had been forged in hardship. At six years old, he'd watched his parents die, their lives snuffed out in a world that seemed to thrive on death. His childhood was a gallery of horrors—friends lost to disease, like his best friend who succumbed to cholera before his eyes. Yet Johnson survived, a boy tempered by loss, only to be ensnared by the brutality of civil war. Recruited as a slave soldier, he fought in battles he barely understood, his young hands stained with blood. It was in Cuba, amidst a revolt against slavery, that he tasted freedom for the first time. That freedom, hard-won and fragile, shaped the man he would become.
Years later, he found solace in Michelle. Their marriage was a beacon of light in his dark world, a partnership that blossomed into joy with the birth of their son, Alan. But happiness was fleeting. By the time Alan was five, cracks had formed in their union, deepened by forces beyond their control. The country they called home had fallen under the iron grip of a dictatorship, its people suffocating under new rules and old fears. But the dictatorship was not the only wedge between them. There were secrets, lies, and betrayals that festered in the shadows of their home.
Six Years Ago
The air was thick with tension that day, the kind that crackled like static before a storm. Michelle's voice cut through the silence, sharp and accusing.
"Hey, Johnson!" she called, her tone laced with fury.
Johnson turned, his heart sinking at the sight of her standing in the kitchen, a jar clutched in her trembling hands. "Hey, why's your tone angry? Did something happen?"
"Something happened, alright," Michelle snapped. "Too much happened."
"What do you mean?" Johnson asked, though a cold dread was already pooling in his gut.
Michelle held up the jar, its label proclaiming it a medicine. But the tablets inside told a different story. She'd done her research, scouring the internet with a photo of one of the pills. The results were damning: mecsha, a dangerous steroid promising muscle growth without effort, but with a deadly catch. Overdose could kill, and even moderate use could wreak havoc on the body. Johnson, who had been taking the drug for a month, had gained four kilograms, his frame growing heavier rather than stronger.
(Note : mecsha doesn't exist in real life)
"What is this?" Michelle demanded, her eyes blazing.
Johnson feigned ignorance, though he knew exactly what she held. "What's that?" he asked, his voice unsteady.
"Don't play dumb," she said, her voice rising. "Tell me what you're doing, or I'm calling the cops."
"I… I really don't know what that is," he stammered, but the lie was thin, and Michelle saw through it.
"I'm calling the cops," she said, reaching for her phone. "And I'm checking the CCTV cameras."
"No, don't, please!" Johnson pleaded, his facade crumbling.
"Tell me right now!"
"I used them," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I… I wanted to grow muscles."
Michelle's face twisted with disgust. "Why couldn't you go to the gym instead of doing drugs?"
"I was lazy," he said, the words tasting like ash. "Forgive me, please."
"I could've forgiven you," Michelle said, her voice cold. "But why are you using the dark web to watch redrooms?"
The word hit like a sledgehammer. Redrooms—vile corners of the dark web where torture and execution were streamed for perverse audiences, the comments egging on unspeakable acts. While searching for another jar of drugs, Michelle had stumbled upon a laptop, its battery dead but its secrets alive. When she charged it and opened it, she found the Tor browser, a gateway to the dark web. Two years earlier, someone had mentioned it to her in passing, but now its presence in their home was a betrayal too deep to ignore.
Michelle didn't call the police, but she didn't speak to Johnson for two weeks. Eventually, she forgave him—or so they both pretended. For eleven months, they danced around the truth, their marriage a fragile truce. But the shadow of the dictatorship loomed larger, casting a pall over their lives.
The Dictatorship
The news report came like a thunderclap. Michelle's eyes were wide as she read the headline aloud: "USA starts war on Cuba, our nation. Sixteen missiles bombed. The Navy is coming closer to us."
Johnson's heart raced. "No way. Turn on the TV, quick!"
The screen flickered to life, the president's face filling the frame. His voice was grave, his words a death knell for their fragile hope. "This is a serious update. All flights to the USA are closed. Border disputes have led to this war. We are negotiating with the US, but for the sake of this nation, Cuba will now be a dictatorship under my rule. Anyone who opposes this has fifteen days to leave."
Michelle's voice was urgent. "We have to leave the country now!"
"We don't have the money," Johnson said, his tone flat, defeated.
"We do," Michelle insisted. "And this country's a dictatorship now!"
"I can't do anything," Johnson said, his voice hardening. "We don't have the money."
"Then let's do this," Michelle said, her eyes blazing with resolve. "We divorce. I'll take Alan and go with my family to another country. You can rot here. And I have more to tell the court—things from eleven months ago."
She meant the drugs, the dark web, the secrets he thought were buried. Johnson tried to reason with her, but her mind was made up. She filed for divorce, and the court granted it. Before her execution , in Japan—her final act of defiance—she told Johnson where Alan was living, a cruel gift that fueled his obsession.
Back to the Present
Johnson's breath caught as the memory faded, the rain a cold reminder of the present. "Oh God, why this memory?" he muttered, his voice lost in the downpour. "Okay, now I go to Kamiko's house at 10 p.m. I will free myself and Alan from the sins . I will come with full preparation . But let's be real , bringing a gun and killing them is not humane . So I will be barehanded . Let's do this."
His ambition was clear, a twisted vision of salvation. He would free Alan, take him to heaven where they would join Michelle. Perhaps they would be reborn as siblings, a family unbroken by the cruelties of this world. It was a delusion, but it was his, and it drove him forward.
10 P.M. - The Infiltration
Kamiko and Alan were alone in the house, their parents away for work until the next day. The two kids were laughing, carefree, when the doorbell shattered the moment.
"Who could that be?" Alan asked, his voice tinged with unease. "Not them (uncle and aunt)—they're back tomorrow."
Kamiko's face paled. "Oh shit. I know who it is. It's your dad."
Kamiko peered through the peephole, his heart pounding. The face on the other side was unmistakable—Johnson, his father, but not as a father should be. He looked like a hitman, his presence radiating menace. Alan's hands trembled as he set up a group call, alerting their friends. "Johnson's here," he whispered.
Outside, Johnson's voice boomed, a chilling promise. "Shall I break in?"
Kamiko looked at Alan, his eyes steely. "We have no choice but to pull this off."
He opened the door, and there he stood—Johnson, the monster who had once been a father. His presence filled the room with dread, a predator in their midst. Their friends were on their way, ready to confront the threat, to end the nightmare.
But for now, it was just them against him.
Author's thoughts
In the end : a person who is grown up in suffering either has two choices : either help the others or make them like you , with suffering . At the end Johnson chose this
Chapter 20 ends
To be continued…